The men, who labour and digest things most, Will be much apter to despond than boast; For if your author be profoundly good, 'Twill cost you dear before he's understood.

Truth and fiction are so aptly mixed that all seems uniform and of a piece.

Let us not write at a loose rambling rate, in hope the world will wink at all our faults.

Choose an author as you would a friend.

Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense.

I will not quarrel with a slight mistake, Such as our nature's frailty may excuse.

The multitude is always wrong.